


don’t know what i wanted; i have a memory

by KilltheRhythm



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Light hurt comfort, M/M, Title from a salvia palth song, angsty late night conversations with the boys, light fluff, really bad probably will delete this in a month lol, still can’t write forwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheRhythm/pseuds/KilltheRhythm
Summary: After the Real Madrid game and the end of their champion’s league run. Roman feels shitty. Marc consoles him.





	don’t know what i wanted; i have a memory

The clock glowers angrily behind Marc’s head, a corona of red light. Roman won’t read it; he knows it’ll say that it’s some ungodly hour in the AM. The rest of the room is lit blue, from the somber late night— or really— early morning light, and the scene is as shit as Roman feels. Marc lies on his side in his bed, only a yard away, looking at Roman with the world’s most tired pair of eyes. Sometimes his lids flutter shut for just a second too long, but he always opens them up again to look at Roman.

Roman must make some noise or look some way at Marc, because eventually the Spaniard kicks off his sheets and leaves his bed. Roman gets a good glimpse of him for a moment, shirtless in fuzzy Dortmund print pajama pants. His hair, normally styled to perfection, splays out at a million angles. He glides through the room with acrobatic precision, sliding into Roman’s bed without a noise.

His presence rumples the thin blanket Roman has thrown over the bed, sending in a gust of cool air. Marc does the same thing he was doing before, laying on his side and looking at Roman with pale blue eyes sharp enough to interrogate. Roman takes a deep breath in and closes his as to avoid any magic empathetic powers Marc holds. He momentarily forces away any want for companionship.

It doesn’t work. His chest shudders as he exhales. He waits for the inevitable “it will be okay” or “you are still talented” or “it was Real, of course we were going to lose.” Any of these would hurt. All of these would cut deep. He knows for a fact that he has the most pitiful expression on his face. The way Marc exhales dejectedly tells him that. He knows that the Spaniard is making the “I am going to care for you like the little baby you are” expression that he always makes in times like this.

Instead Marc just wraps his arms around Roman, pulling him tightly in. He smells like cologne and fresh hotel sheets and the nice yuzu bodywash he uses. Roman is suddenly conscious of the fact that he is about to cry, and that Marc is just trying to console him. Marc’s fingers trace light circles on his back, occasionally bunching the material of his shirt. He can feel Marc’s breaths, slow and steady, and tries to slow his down too.

Marc pulls away to look at him. “You know, it’s not just you. We’re all playing bad,” he says in the best German he could muster.

“I could’ve been better. Me, individually.”

“Everyone can say that. I’m not happy about it either, but I’m not going to,” he pauses, thinking about how to say what he wants to say, and switches to English “beat myself up over it. Especially this late at night.”

Roman nods, swallowing a lump a guilt in his throat. Marc smiles at him, a hand slipping through Roman’s hair, right behind his ear. He had known him since last summer, but it seems like a lot longer than that. Hell, last winter seems ages ago already, even with all of its eventfulness. Marc is probably the nicest person Roman has ever met, friendly and genuine and caring and Roman could probably sing his praises for a year and still have more to say. He smiles into Marc’s chest before pulling out of the hug.

“Yeah,” Roman says, studying Marc’s features. The way that the light hits his face makes him look statuesque, like a sculpture of a damn Greek god. Roman finds himself transfixed, the sadness of the past few hours melting away.

A look of concern registers on Marc’s face. “You alright over there?” Roman nods.

“Just zoned out for a second.”

Marc giggles, his hands still tangled in the back of Roman’s hair. “Zoned our looking at me?” He sounds like every flirty girl Roman’s ever interacted with.

Roman nods, mood on an upswing. He could play at this game too. “Well, yeah, hard not to with your face and all.”

“With my face? You’re the one with the nice face,” Marc says with the type of sincerity he always has.

One of Marc’s hands slides down from Roman’s shoulders to the small of his back. He tilts his head to the side in bed, still looking at Roman, just now from a new angle. A tiny smile plays on his lips. Roman doesn’t know how it happens but within a half minute they’re making out on his bed like horny teenagers. Marc clambers on top of him, gung ho about this like he is about everything.

At some point Roman feels himself sliding off of the bed, but Marc manages to pull him back on the bed with surprising strength. Roman looks up at him, amused, but Marc appears to be totally unphased. He quirks an eyebrow at Roman before leaning back in, hovering above Roman’s face.

“You into this?”

“Yeah.” Marc looks surprised that Roman had to even ask. “You are too, right?”

Roman nods. “Y-yeah,” he pauses, feeling Marc’s fingers at the edge of his waistband. “Uh, actually I’ve thought about this before.”

“Me too,” Marc breaths heavy. “More than I’d like to admit.”

“A shame this didn’t happen earlier, then.” Roman says, wondering how quickly they’d gotten from Marc consoling him over a loss to Marc kissing him with a hand down his pants.

Marc doesn’t really respond, but Roman doesn’t mind. He’s all over him, simultaneously tugging his hair and pulling down his pants. Roman makes a noise, and Marc suddenly is clamping a hand over his mouth and hissing “Łukasz is next door, stay quiet.” That doesn’t change what he’s doing with his other hand, though. Roman nods, biting down his tongue.

 

  
Auba sighs into his Raisin Bran (high fiber and low sugar like the club physios make them eat the day after games), legs a little ache-y and spirits feeling crushed. Losses like this always left him moody and Marco was currently not replying to his WhatsApp. He feels even lonelier. Momentarily he had contemplated sending another message to Marco, or maybe a photo of the weird dog he’d seen last week to the Gabon Groupchat, desperate for something to take his mind off of the now. Instead, he decides to listen to the conversation around him.

Łukasz sits to his right, brooding just as much as Auba, if not more. It could also just be his face though. Felix had dubbed it “resting bitch face” before he went to Hoffenheim. Sokratis is to his left, drinking coffee despite being already very awake, frown plastered on underneath his permanent five o’clock shadow. His eyes focus on their two teammates currently getting breakfast.

“I’m just saying, I think there might be something up with those two.” He states in slow German to Łukasz.

“Roman and Marc?” Auba butts in, raising an eyebrow.

Łukasz shakes his head like he’s heard this many times before. “No way,” he pauses to look at Sokratis “what even makes you think that?”

Marc and Roman sit at a table far away, chatting over breakfast. They’re in a better mood than anyone else in the whole room, and it’s obvious. Marc’s face is lit up and Roman is in a better mood than after any other loss. Auba wonders what they’re so happy about, and then feels a pang of longing for Marco to be here. Marco could always cheer him up after a bad result.

“See?” Sokratis says, gesturing towards him.

“Nah, I still don’t see anything,” Łukasz responds. He looks at Auba, but Auba doesn’t even make a move to respond. Łukasz and Sokratis exchange glances and shrug.

Across the room, Marc glances at the the three. He wonders why they’re staring at him and Roman until a sense of terror hit him. Did they know? He turned to face Roman again to voice his concerns.

“Oh god Roman, do they know?”

Roman cocks an eyebrow. “Know what?” Marc stares at him expectantly. “Oh, _that_. Why would they?”

“Uh,” Marc says, looking back at Auba. He’s staring ahead, though Marc cannot tell whether it’s at them or into space. “Were we loud?”

“No.” Roman looks around. “Or at least I don’t think we were.”

Marc bobs, still in a good mood. He stares into his bowl of cereal, apparently contemplative. Roman studies his features; the thin veneer of stubble across the lower half of Marc’s face, his high cheekbones and dark brown hair. He looks up from his thoughts to crack a face at the goalkeeper. Roman can’t help but smile right back at him. Under the table Marc squeezes his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> How is there nothing for these two? Guess you gotta be the change u wanna see. Anywho send me ur comments/criticisms/etc they fuel me


End file.
